


Right of the Injured Party

by LordOnisyr



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Ending, Black Romance, Bondage, Execution, Headcanon, Horror, M/M, Major Character Injury, Non-Consensual Body Modification, POV First Person, Prison, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scars, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordOnisyr/pseuds/LordOnisyr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Campania incident, Grell is allowed a final act of revenge on an imprisoned Undertaker thanks to an old, obscure reaper code. Alternate ending to the Campania arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Right of the Injured Party**

  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Yana Toboso and Square Enix, Co. Ltd. I don’t own them; I just examine all their possibilities.

 

**Part 1**

  
The name on his official record was John Pennington. His personnel file said he was born sometime in the winter of 1096 and officially joined the ranks around 1133, making him 37 at the time of his recruitment. It would be tempting to say he looked closer to 60 now, though reapers don’t age in the common sense.

  
We don’t age to die, we age with centuries of experience. It is possible to live for as long as you feel like, it is also possible to retire to the outer realms and enjoy eternal rest if one pleases. Out of the handful of things that can kill us, age is not one of them. Reapers don’t get all wrinkly and decrepit. Our hair will turn white and there will be some little lines. Elder reapers just look like more mature versions of their freshly minted selves, only their age is more subtle. You can see the centuries if not millennia of wisdom and strife just by looking at them, seeing that distant gaze and that cruel smirk. Older reapers tend to be the most hardened, or in Johnny’s case the most deranged.

  
Our boy was a member of the Sheffield office for the longest while, or rather the Doncaster Abbey before it became the Sheffield office back in the darker ages. He had one of those perpetual prohibitions from reaping members of a certain family; a sign I know from personal experience as a beacon that said reaper was born from nobility. Though this wasn’t just one house listed, it was two: The Earldom of Tynell and the Earldom of Morsefield. Maybe daddy or even he was lucky enough to carry two titles, maybe he was royalty and just stacked them up, or maybe someone took an additional decoration by force. It was common in that era from what I understood; I’m sure slaughtering a whole family or having one‘s family slaughtered makes one a little interesting.

  
Word spread he carried the title of Lord, though naturally one’s human station holds nothing of weight on one’s new and improved form. Johnny, however, amassed a respectable if not admirable reputation at one point. In his greener days, he collected the soul of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon; merely an older man in his deathbed after too many bloodlettings. Apparently in his youth he was a storied highwayman with a heart of gold known as Robin Hood; the name is somewhat familiar.

  
In 1793 he was part of the contingent sent from England to France to collect all the enemies to the Republique liberated of their heads during the Reign of Terror. He became rather well-known for collecting Marie Antoinette fresh from Madame Guillotine. I found that rather odd since usually the host country prefers to clean up after their own leaders in a coup or assassination regardless from where said leader originally came. Perhaps no one in Paris office wanted to dirty their scythes with her. Reapers are not supposed to maintain any political affiliations during such strife, though nationalistic blood sometimes stirs through the veins of the old and dead. Though considering her final destination to a large flaming abyss, perhaps they had their reasons.

  
He attained management level as a field supervisor and was in demand for lectures at the academy. In reaper terms, he was a bit of a hero at one point in history. Johnny could have rested on his laurels, savored the commendations he received left and right for services rendered, and simply accepted a few speaking invitations to neighboring offices. He might have retired with full honors and allowed to live that simple life in the human world he so wanted. Such desires would mean that our boy was sane, but such was not the case in spades. Whether age made him weirder or he was simply mad from day one, no one will ever know and certainly no one was trusting a word Johnny said.

  
The boys from Sheffield pulled out records documenting suspicions that he was having inappropriate intimate relations with his clients…after he collected their souls. It turns out his tastes were much darker than even that; the Sheffield bosses said he was suspected of true necromantic practices, a huge no-no for our kind.

  
They collected enough evidence of his experiments with corpses, death energy, and even Cinematic Records to order his detainment. To make a long story short he didn’t go quietly. His would-be captors got a few nasty slices into him, alas he was a bit too quick for all of them. His wounds left him with horrible scars and his glasses were destroyed, but it was not enough to do any real damage. Four dead reapers and one passionate elimination order later, Johnny himself was an outlaw like his first famous client only a bit less revered.

  
That was fifty years ago and they’d been on watch for him since. Little did they know he slipped into London under a different name and set up a rather successful mortuary shop in St. Giles. He hid right in the open, growing out his fringe and wearing a top hat to conceal his eyes. This wanted outlaw kept a storefront business was known by the locals as the respected if not shivered-upon neighborhood creep. As an undertaker, he was a sought after source of information for the police and many “evil nobles.” After a while people forgot he even had a name; he was simply “Undertaker.” Hell even I set foot in his shop and had no bloody clue he was anything other than an old kook; this came as a surprise even to sweet Bassie and he supposedly knew everything about everyone. How you mourn being wrong.

  
That was all in the past now. One ship ride later, Lord John Pennington, or rather Undertaker, was now shackled up in a maximum security detainment cell in the London office. The bosses in London and Sheffield were heaping all the credit for this on myself and little Ronnie. Granted darling Sebastian did do much work, even Earl Whelp proved himself useful. However this was at its heart a reaper matter and ended a reaper matter.

  
I remembered very little of it; a large slash through the chest with a scythe has that impact. Lord Johnny took his scythe with him when he deserted, Ron and I only found that out the hard way.

  
Do you have any idea what a scythe wound feels like? A sting, an itch followed by aching? Maybe to someone else, not to our kind. I’ve taken normal blades before. I’ve been stabbed, slashed, cut up, even full on disemboweled once; ‘tis but a scratch and it heals up in a few minutes. That’s with normal steel blades, our weapons are made from this lovely substance known as Gray Metal: it’s steel forged hard as diamonds and infused with the energy of death force. Gray Metal draws out the life force of any creature; extracting the Cinematic Record with the soul following behind. Imagine what just a little cut feels like on a creature that is death force embodied.

  
Imagine a blade coated in powdered acid cutting through flesh and muscles, scraping across bone, nicking internal organs. The pain doesn’t just sting then throb, it eats at you, it aches everywhere. That’s what it feels like. This isn’t a fun ache, this isn’t passionate pain; this is pure agony. That is what I was reduced to in one swipe of that blade. When the reality dawned on me, I couldn’t help the feeling I was about to die right there; the glory of immortality now rendered meaningless. The thought of being another cold corpse lying with the thousand others on a sinking ship all because of one seemingly innocent old kook.

  
Then I heard the grunt and gurgle right next to me. Little Ronnie, who just had seven years of his new condition, is drenched in red from the same exact slash. I actually felt bad for the kid, just thinking he was way too bloody young for this. He’s a tough lad, I’ll give him that. I don’t remember much, only that we both picked our arses up and got right back to our jobs.

  
I don’t remember what happened from there, only the knowledge that we did get off that bloody boat, ended up back in the office, and Johnny was in his proper place. It gave me this warm feeling amid my aches; it made it easier to pass out cold.

  
The damage reports for both of us were rather bleak on their head; the blood loss alone did us no favors and that’s not even counting the torn skin and muscles from that little swipe. The worst damage on my end was a nasty cut across my liver. Ron got the worst of it; slashes through his spleen, stomach, gallbladder, and liver. Reaper healing normally can do little against a scythe wound. We all know anything large needs to be sewn up manually, meaning full out surgery for deep internal wounds. Amazingly all of our internal wounds were nearly closed by the time we returned to the office. They kept us under close watch for a few nights, but neither of us needed more than external stitching.

  
Apparently being away from the office for so long meant Johnny never got the chance to reenergize his blade through the proper cleaning and sharpening process. The death energy weakened with the lack of care, rendering the blade a little less potent. It could still extract a Record (as Bassie learned the hard way) but this means we were able to heal the internal damage on our own; we were very bloody lucky.

  
The stitching was rather extensive given the nature of our wounds. I was told I got about 130 for my troubles, Ron got more than that. I tried not to look down at the red gash crosshatched with black thread that ran from my lower right side through the left side of my chest. This would scar permanently, I was told; Ronnie’s cut too. We both would end up with gashes just like Johnny’s, though more heroically earned. Someone said that such was poetic irony; the Undertaker earned such scars murdering his own kind, and he gave us our own as we captured him. Senior and junior would bear the same red mark of valor for their brave service against a hated rogue. What a lovely story that made.

  
Perhaps I would keep this in mind to keep me from mourning my lovely flesh that was marred so badly. Reaper alteration could take care of this over a period of time, though it would take effort. I was willing to put in as much as possible once I healed. I was horrified by this prospect at first, my vanity speaking a bit loudly. The thought was embedded in my hazy mind that no man would want to make love to me with this scar, I was so hideous. I managed to calm the thought. It wasn’t on my face, the scar was easily concealed, plus the men I preferred were made of tougher stuff and wouldn’t balk at the sight of a little old scar. Perhaps it would make my beauty even fiercer. Ronnie would have a similar one too; all from the same weapon at the same moment. Perhaps there was a nice story out of this, though rather I was enjoying the company with my misery.

  
Any superficial worries were swept away in a wave of burning aches. We might have lucked out in every situation but the pain; scythe wounds tend to ache, the deeper and nastier the wound the longer the healing time. Morphine is such a wonderful thing for times like these; just a little shot and back to sleep, though eventually you have to stay awake. That stuff made my stomach turn horribly, after a while I was asking for less and less of it for that reason alone. I’ll admit I was in a few Chinese dens during my living days, though I believe that was why I stopped dabbling with that stuff in the first place. I do have a bit of a high threshold for pain, meaning the experience wasn’t as awful.

  
Little Ronnie was so bloody tough. I would still wake up at night to the sound of heavy breaths and grunts in the bed across from me. Through the dim light, I would put on my glasses to see him half asleep, bracing himself with his arms, face contorted and teeth visibly gritted. I felt bad for the kid, though he was pushing through it.

  
It was in my aching, drugged haze that I would hear about Johnny’s story, recognizing William’s voice from time to time or one of the higher-ups. We were supposed to be two more of his victims cut down for simply being in the way. He meant to finish us off too if Bassie hadn’t intervened. In the end Ron and I were lauded as heroes, we received commendations for bringing in such a deplorable fugitive not to mention cleaning up that many souls under such chaotic circumstances. Apparently everyone had a rosier view of me; a once wayward soul who cut up innocent women was now a reformed hero who brought in a true monster.

  
Neither of us attended the Undertaker’s disciplinary hearing, we were both too cozy in our infirmary beds and just starting to wake up a bit more. I was a little more upright and Ron was a bit more awake when the magistrate came by for our testimony. Two days later, both of us were in much better shape. We then received the news that Lord John Pennington was sentenced to die; he was to be beheaded by scythe at the next sunrise. Words cannot describe the absolute glee in my heart at this news. It made my lingering aches a little less heavy, or rather gave them an answer.

  
By that afternoon I had been formally released from the infirmary. Ron was going to be there a few more days. I could tell by the looks on his face when the pretty nurses served him his porridge and discussed when he would have his next bath that he was taking everything in stride. I promised him I would tell him how the execution went. You bloody well bet I was going to be there. I wanted to stand right up front and watch the bastard’s head fall off in a spray of blood; I wanted to see him covered in the prettiest red and smile upon his corpse. Let’s see how hard this nutter laughed now.

  
I was collecting my nice red nightgown and slippers when William walked into the infirmary cradling a folio under his arm. He simply looked at me; it as not the usual cross or irritated look he so commonly gave. This was different, I could not put my finger on what it was thought it was beautifully cold regardless. He then opened the folio and pulled out a piece of paper.

  
“The bosses asked me to offer this to you and Mr. Knox, though it appears you are a bit more upright to enjoy the fruits of this decree,” William said quietly, looking back at Ron, who was sleeping like a baby in his bed.

  
William then handed me the paper. The title was simply “Certificate, Code 505: 6a: Right of the Injured Party.” I furrowed my brows and read it over a bit more carefully.

  
 _Pertaining to Code 505: Reaper Elimination_  
 _Section 6a: The Right of the Injured Party_  
 _Should a reaper commit such crimes for which elimination is deemed the most suitable punishment, any other reaper who is gravely injured in the process of such crimes (The Injured Party) shall have the right of final reprisal before the guilty party is eliminated. The Injured Party has the right to impose personal punishment on the condemned as he/she sees appropriate and do so with impunity under the following conditions:_  
 _1\. The Right must be granted by permission of the Council and formally presented to The Injured party by his or her immediate supervisor._  
 _2\. A designated certificate must be presented to the gaoler and signed by the designee as indicated on the document._  
 _3a. Scythes or other materials containing Gray Metal are not allowed to be carried in the detainment space of the condemned must be surrendered to the gaoler before entering the detainment space._  
 _b. No extra normal powers may be used in the process of reprisal._  
 _4\. The reprisal must be carried out before the last designated hour of the condemned’s life._  
 _5\. This right may be waived by the Injured Party if he or she so chooses._

_This certificate is presented to the Injured Party:_  
 _Grell N. Sutcliff_  
 _For reprisal on the condemned:_  
 _John Pennington_

_By signing, the party agrees to adhere to the above regulations. Failure to do so will result in disciplinary action._

There were lines on the bottom for a signature and date. I stared hard at this paper, skimming it over again. What the bloody hell was this? Was I reading all of this correctly? I looked back up at Will.

  
“If I’m reading this right…” I started.

  
He put a finger to his lips and looked around, signaling for me to keep my tone low.

  
“You are reading it correctly, though it is an obscure and a rather morbid code. The quieter this is kept the better,” William said in a low tone. “I was told the last time this was enacted Cromwell was in power. I was tasked with presenting this to you and Mr. Knox. I did voice my concerns about your own discipline history for the record lest a privilege like this encourage you, you are still under probation.”

  
“But that didn’t make a shred of difference to the bosses?” I asked.

  
“They thought the circumstances merited this, plus you did show exemplary service during that whole incident aboard the Campania,” Will said. “The way they phrased it gave me little reason to argue.”

  
I expected to hear his usual annoyed tone, though there was no trace of it. He didn’t sound all that disappointed with the circumstances; it was almost chilling yet exciting.

  
“John Pennington is to be executed tomorrow morning at 4:30 on the dot,” he said quietly. “At the present he is heavily locked up in shackles made from an iron ore formulated to keep his energy is at its lowest level for him to even stay conscious. He will be as docile as a drugged kitten. You have until 3:30 in the morning should you decide to take advantage of this privilege.”

  
William patted the folder under his arm.

  
“Should Mr. Knox wake up and suddenly pull himself upright, I will present him with his own certificate,” William said.

  
He adjusted his glasses by the side of the frames and flashed me a pointed look. It wasn’t a look of scolding or irritation; it was almost knowing. It seemed to say, “You’ll know what to do.” I smirked a little in response. He then looked ahead and walked from the room.

  
Ronnie remained fast asleep, I personally couldn’t stand being in this place any more so there was no reason for me to stick around. I had already signed the discharge papers and been given my care and cleaning lecture. I collected my effects and scoured enough energy to phase back to my room, the sudden shift making me dizzy for a moment though the moment passed. I was healing a bit better than I thought.

  
It felt so good to be back to my lovely room. This was the first time I’d been here since leaving for that bloody ship. How I missed my lovely red wallpaper with gold flowers and my soft couch. I prepared myself a cup of tea and relaxed a bit, finding a good position so as not to aggravate the stitches. I was tempted to change from my plain white shirt and black trousers into my soft nightgown., though I lacked the desire at the moment. Whilst casually reclining and sipping my Darjeeling, I found myself pulling out the certificate and looking upon it.

  
This was a rather morbid declaration, it would be tempting to describe it as uncharacteristically Draconian of the higher-ups. They liked their rules and order, though were not as happy to spill the blood of their own unless there was merit. Then again this was Lord Johnny we were talking about; this was a hated murderer wanted by the Sheffield office. He brought his corruption to London and over a thousand people died horribly for it.

  
Reapers tend to be most arrogant; I have no qualms about admitting this. Reapers tend to be the most arrogant when it comes to transgressors, I know this from personal experience. Fortunately I have as thick skin and have secured many true alliances since returning to the office. I have my own collective who do not cast a downward gaze at me and whisper behind my back.

  
I’m not proud of my crimes, though they were stealing candy compared to the shit Lord Johnny pulled through the latter end of his career. This was something you heard whispered when someone had a horror story; a story about a true monster among our kind. The fact he slaughtered four other reapers in the midst of his escape carried more than a bit of weight for everyone. As quick as reapers are too look down on the scofflaws among them, they are more quick to rally around a fallen comrade. A reaper who murders those of his own kind is truly a dead man walking even among dead men.

  
They wanted to make an example of this Undertaker, show him what decent reapers feel about murderers and necromancers…and he just happened to leave two survivors. The bosses knew Ronnie was in no shape to properly punish our boy, though I am sure he would do so enthusiastically. Underneath the façade of a pretty, stupid boy lies a vicious snake that rears his head once given the chance to be let out. I, on the other hand, am in a bit better shape for such a task and oh how the bosses know how I love to play. Perhaps they could think of no worse fate for our miscreant than to give little old me free rein on him. I didn’t know if I should take that as a compliment or an insult.

  
I did debate whether I should give the bosses such pleasure. As much as I might vocalize to the contrary, I really don’t tend to take combat wounds personally. Usually I take them as encouragement to press on harder, whether that is with a grin or a snarl depends on my mood at the time. The involvement of a scythe is a much different story. I took a small look under my collar to reinforce this concept. All fun and games end when an opposing scythe is involved; the stakes get raised that much more and simple combat becomes a bit more frightening. When a sneaky bastard decides to hide his scythe in some stupid flying sticks it’s another matter, though what of when the first time you realize a scythe is involved is when your chest explodes in sheer pain?

  
Perhaps I didn’t take combat wounds personally, but this situation was a bit more different. I take it seriously when someone truly tries to kill me. Bassie leaning over me with my own scythe last year was the result of my own stupidity, this was much different. Will got to Bassie before any cutting happened, Johnny got his slice right where he wanted it. I had never taken a scythe wound that serious before. We all take a small slice to the finger during training to appreciate the power of what our own weapons can do. I’ve gotten some very minor nicks before. Never before was I in a position where my very eternal life was in that much danger, the experience was more than a little sobering.

  
I only needed to think about the scar I would have for eternity unless I used my energy for a prolonged period to be rid of it. What about my Designated Junior still lying in the infirmary? I have had over a hundred years in my state, he is still a young man in mortal terms. And he was nearly cut down as easily as I was, this bothered me a bit. My fingers tightened around the paper.

  
This was a carte blanche to collect as much as I wanted from the dear Undertaker. He nearly took it all from me, he nearly took the rest from Ron, how much could I take for my own before the executioner’s scythe took the rest? I had some fun during that ill-fated voyage before things turned serious; I was due now for some uninterrupted merriment. 


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is going to get really brutal and disgusting in every imaginable way with triggers by the truckload. Viewer discretion advised.

**Right of the Injured Party**

  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Yana Toboso and Square Enix, Co. Ltd. I don’t own them; I just examine all their possibilities.

 

**Part 2**

  
I heard the clock strike 10 when I phased to the Security building. It was a large, blocky building off the east wing that had the air of an old courthouse right down to the severe granite blocks and wood-paneled interior. Phasing could only go as far as the main lobby, I would have to walk the rest of the way to the prison wing. The prison had wards against entry by anyway other than the door.

  
The momentary dizziness I had upon materializing did not make this a pleasant prospect, though I wasn’t going to miss this chance for the world. Just because I was out of the infirmary now didn’t mean I was anywhere near full health. I needed to keep this in mind when I did what I did. I was told to rest, though a little light movement could aid in recovery. I would just have to pace myself and be a bit more subtle when I lay into the Undertaker.

  
It was the main reason why I didn’t put any effort into my appearance. I remained in the same loose white shirt and black trousers I had been discharged in. I slipped on a pair of rough Oxfords I had for occasions when a lower heel was more appropriate. I did put on some light powder and some eye shadow, through spatters of this bastard’s blood would be the final touches.

  
This entire building was disturbingly familiar to the point where my face ached from the memory. The main section I walked through now were the hearing rooms and magistrate’s chambers. No one else was around, it was past hours and they had up simple wards to prevent intrusion into any of the rooms. Soon I was turning around another corner to the even less cheerful area lined in white-painted cement walls; the entrance to the gaol. William dragged me here just a few months ago following that incident of which I would rather not ponder now. This time I was walking here of my own volition; this time I wasn’t the prisoner but the punisher, it was a pleasant turnaround.

  
The gaoler sat in a booth at the end of the hallway, I knew there were two sets of doors on either side of the booth concealed behind an enchantment to make them look like painted bricks. The prison ward was beyond that wall and accessible to only this chap or anyone else with the proper key.

  
Fortunately this wasn’t the same one who was on duty when William dragged me in. Even though my glasses were broken and my eyes were swollen to slits, I was still able to see that particular one was skinny and had blond hair pulled into a ponytail. This one was a heavyset gentlemen with lovely auburn hair that was alas thinning and frizzy, the tufts matched with his overgrown goatee and bulbous nose. He adjusted his rectangular spectacles by the bridge whilst flipping through was looked like a hunting magazine. I saw the name “James Alder” on a nameplate on the counter.

  
I approached him, my certificate raised in my hand. He looked up at me, then did a double-take at the certificate. I placed it on the counter and he looked at it, rising from his seat as the corners of his mouth curled up in an amused smirk. It looked as if he had some idea what this was about.

  
“Hand over your scythe please,” Jimmy said.

  
I summoned my scythe to my hand and gently laid it on the counter. He collected it and placed it in a metal case behind him, locking the case.

  
“You won’t be able to summon it while it’s in here, you’ll get it back after you come back out,” the gaoler said. “Do you have any other Gray Metal materials on your person?”

  
“No sir,” I said.

  
He nodded, picking a pen off his desk and laying it down on the counter beside the certificate.

  
“Sign and date on the line,” he said.

  
I took that pen in my left hand like drawing a sword, placing my looping signature on the line with today’s date. I placed the pen back on the counter and pushed both toward him. He collected the paper and placed it in a folder on his desk. He then stood up, putting his magazine down and walking over to the wall. I heard a few clicking sounds and felt an energy snap; a series of stones faded to an open doorway into another hallway. He leaned halfway out and motioned to enter.

  
“This way please,” Jimmy said.

  
I walked through the doorway, seeing the same white walls and gray tile floor. I did recall looking down on this when I was escorted to and from my discipline hearings, still thinking it could use at least some red tiles or perhaps a couple paintings. I reminded myself my hands were not bound behind my back this time, I lightly shook them at my sides to reinforce the point.

  
We walked past the administrative offices and boarded a lift going down to the detention level. We went down a few floors, past the main detention area where I was held and went a bit lower. You could already smell a bit of must like an old cellar. They really did shut Johnny away in a dungeon. At last the doors opened, revealing a wall of thick gray bricks. Jimmy lead me down the hallway of more gray pricks and heavy-framed steel doors. Everything was so much more severe down here, so daunting.

  
Jimmy the Gaoler stopped in front of one door and pulled out a key. I stood back for a moment, I wanted Lord Johnny to see me last; make this a grand old surprise. The door opened, though revealed a series of brightly lit shelves and cabinets. Jim walked inside motioning for me to enter as well before closing the door. I took a closer look at the contents of the shelves, seeing all sorts of deadly weaponry ranging from swords to contemporary rifles. He lead me to one steel cabinet off to the side and opened it with a key. Inside was the most fascinating collection of screws, pokers, forks, and wires that the Medieval era could produce for causing the utmost amount of pain.

  
“Take your pick of anything in this room and place them in your scythe’s space,” Jimmy the Gaoler said. “Five at maximum. Keep in mind he’ll be chained upright by his wrists against the wall and there will be no fire in the vicinity. Choose your toys wisely.”

  
I pondered the assortment of artifacts in the cabinet.

  
“This collection specifically reserved for this purpose?” I asked.

  
“Not just for this purpose, it’s also encouragement for sharing information,” he said with a little smirk. “Not really for reapers, mostly for the very important creatures held as battle captives. Add a dash of holy water to one of those things and a demon will scream for his horned mummy.”

  
“Fascinating,” I said in pure awe.

  
I took a careful scan of the cabinet and then looked around to the rest of the room. I did bring a couple odds and ends with me, not knowing what if anything else would be at my disposal. I had to decide what strategy to take; brute force or subtle agony. Both actually sounded ideal, start small then work my way up or perhaps I would break him down and them do spot work. I did need to take my health into account, perhaps subtle agony was the best approach.

  
I took a second look in the cabinet, my eye catching on a few black leather straps hanging from the bottom. I reached down and grabbed a soft leather handle, pulling up the most beautiful creator of sweet pain; a cat-o-nine-tails. Oh this was going to be so much fun; I immediately procured it into the empty dimensional pocket normally occupied by my scythe. I also took up a metal poker for good measure; a hook on one end curving out with a spike, a sharp point on the other, and thick enough iron that could do loads of damage when struck the right way against a person.

  
I really wasn’t familiar with the use of the more complicated items, might as well use the talents I already have. I looked around the larger part of the room, more than a bit disinterested with the more blatant weapons. I would rather play with him, destroying his body entirely sounded a bit like a killjoy.

  
“I’m satisfied,” I said.

  
“All right,” Jim said.

  
I walked toward the door and stepped into the hallway, hearing the heavy door latch behind me. He lead me a bit further down the hall. This whole place felt like the pits of doom; dark, musty, lined with severe steel doors, choked with a snuffing quiet. I doubted there was anyone else behind those doors. Long-term imprisonment was a rare thing; usually they cartoned you up pending the conclusion of your disciplinary hearings.

  
I had heard it was possible to be locked up for a few years, that was one of the sentence options that loomed over me after that certain series of incidents. Such a sentence was meant for reform, it would only be long enough for you to get the message and still have hope of staying with the company; anything beyond that means sacking. Elimination orders were only served on those who had done the most ghastly, unforgivable offenses; those who were a danger to the very planes. This was the perfect final home for our darling Undertaker.

  
Jim the Gaoler stopped at one door near the end of the hallway and took out his key, placing it in the door’s lock. This had to be my location.

  
“You have until 3:30 on the dot to do whatever you wish,” he said.

  
He took out a second key chain with a single key on it.

  
“Take hold of this key and have it in your hand for a moment,” he said.

  
I took the key, the metal felt like ice though I held it as instructed. The black key turned copper and took a feeling of warmth.

  
“That’s your key out should you wrap it up before then,” he said. “It will not work unless it is in your living hand.”

  
“Is there a chance my hand might not be living after this?”

  
“That chance is damn near impossible unless you do something stupid. He’s chained up like a crate on a topsy-turvy ship and there’s no way in Hades to break him out without a designated key. Not to mention his energy is pretty much gone. He’ll have barely enough to heal himself before his head gets lopped off, though that depends on how bad you give it to him. There’s a good chance he walks on that scaffold, everyone’s gonna see what you did.” I found his snicker at this rather amusing. “But we can’t take any chances.”

  
“Understandable.”

  
“The moment this lock turns, I’ll know and I’ll be right down to escort you out,” he said.

  
I nodded and put the key in the small hidden pocket in my trouser pocket. Jimmy turned the key, I head a massive mechanism unlatching and felt a large snap of energy as the sealing wards were broken. A normal sealing ward felt like a small snap when opening, this one was like a bolt of lightening. Naturally the wards were much stronger for such a VIP.

  
Jimmy opened the door, revealing a dark room where a small beam of light shone from the ceiling. He walked in first and I followed a few steps afterward. The room was a bit larger than I expected. A single small lamp hung from the ceiling and cast the cell in a faint glow. It took me a moment to work out my sight, that’s when I saw the man of the moment.

  
He wore only a ragged pair of black and white striped trousers, his torso bare. I saw a long scar going across his chest, probably alike to the one Ron and I would have thanks to him. I could only imagine he got it from some poor bloke trying to bring a miscreant to justice who would only receive a bloody final end in return. What if this fellow watched his comrades get cut down around him; was it like the feeling of watching my junior tumble down next to me? My heart pounded in my ears, I was primed for this little privilege.

  
When Will and Jimmy said he was chained up, they weren’t bluffing. He was practically against the wall; his arms hung high by thick iron cuffs that went practically down to his forearm and were connected with three heavy chains. Similar cuffs and chains were around his ankles, the chains long enough to allow him to stay upright and not tumble down. Will said the irons were specially made to keep his energy low and Jimmy the Gaoler said something of the sort. John just hung limply, his head bowed and white hair cascading down his shoulders with his braid hanging across that wonderfully toned chest. I would have thought he were asleep if it weren’t for the slight curling of his fingers. His long black nails had been lopped uneven stubs; I suppose they didn’t want him using them as a weapon.

  
“John Pennington,” the gaoler said.

  
The Undertaker’s head slightly rose from his chest. I saw the glint of a green eye between strands of his hair. His lips were stiff in a purely neutral expression. The gaoler lifted a piece of paper and adjusted his glasses to read.

  
“As you have been sentenced to elimination for your crimes, and as one such crime resulted in serious injuries to two reapers, so named Grell Nils Sutcliff and Ronald David Knox, Dispatch Officers Sutcliff and Knox are hereby entitled to the provisions outlined in Code 505: 6a, titled ‘The Right of the Injured Party,’” Jimmy read.

  
The Undertaker’s lips curled up in what looked like an amused smirk. I think he knew what this was about already. How he reacted to it would be a bit fascinating to behold.

  
“You are hereby subject to final reprisal up to one hour before your scheduled time of execution. The certificate has already been redeemed and signed by Dispatch Officer Sutcliff and you are now subject to his reprisal. You will have no recourse against any of Mr. Sutcliff’s actions, as your existence is considered void by ruling of the Reaper Council.”

  
I could see the Undertaker’s eye fixed right on me, I only sneered back. Jimmy lowered the paper and looked at me.

  
“Enjoy yourself,” he said.

  
He then walked to the door, undoing the latch, and walking out. The door crashed shut and the locking mechanism set itself with a loud clank. I never even looked behind me, my eyes were fixed on the condemned creature in front of me. Johnny and I were now alone in this room; there he was exposed and vulnerable before me. He was a blank canvas in need of some beautiful red paint. His head rose a little higher and he snickered, I could see both eyes through his long fringe. The smile he wore was pure malice, it made my heart flutter a bit.

  
“Lord John Pennington, I presume,” I said in the sweetest of tones, taking a noble bow. “Pleasure to return to your acquaintance.”

  
He chuckled harder; it was a throaty noise with a slight screech that was more than a little unsettling.

  
“Well if it isn’t Jack the Ripper,” he said.

  
His voice was a little weaker, likely the result of the exquisite shape he was in now.

  
I merely smiled and merely snickered.

  
“No, that’s not entirely correct,” he said, his voice becoming a bit stronger with every new word. “You’re just one of them. You had a partner; a lovely lady. I remember preparing her for her last party; it wasn’t easy mind you. Oh dear me, you made quite a mess of her.”

  
“I suppose you had to clean up the mess you made of her as well, or rather in her or perhaps on her,” I said. “I’ve heard all the horror stories about you.”

  
He let out a wheezing cackle.

  
“Just look at you and me; two nightmarish monsters locked up in a dank, dark, dreary dungeon,” he said. “How many horror stories start with this, or rather how many jokes begin this way.” He cackled again. “‘Two bogeymen walk into a dungeon…’”

  
I couldn’t help but have a laugh at this.

  
“One says to the other, ‘Why you just hangin’ round,’” I said, mentally reaching into my stores. “The second one says, ‘I ain’t got nothing’ better to do,’ his friend says, ‘Let’s crack one open.’”

  
The whip was in my hand, its tendrils sinking into Johnny’s flesh and drawing thick red lines. He yelped at the sudden surprise. I reared my wrist back and swung forward again. The tails ripped off small bits of flesh and left more red streaks to join the building smears. My wrist was practically moving on its own accord, I adjusted my stance with the different lashes; finding a grip and aim that would add more to the growing trickle oozing all down that lovely chest. His torso jerked backwards a few times and his wrists twisted in the cuffs. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as he made a few grunting noises.

  
I laid on, savoring the crack of the tails against his flesh, the sight of small peels of skin sticking to the end of the knots. I remembered to pace myself lest I aggravate my injury, though I actually found this invigorating. I heard sharp intakes of breath and saw his nostrils flare in response. His lips parted to reveal gritted teeth as he breathed harder. I moved from his chest to his arms. The tails wrapped around whatever curves they could find and flensed small red trails. His head fell back and I saw his eyelids flutter a bit. Dear God was he smiling? Johnny then let out a soft moan; this wasn’t a moan of suffering, this was a moan of bliss like tasting an exquisite wine, or the first moans of lovemaking.

  
The bounder was enjoying this. That didn’t exactly surprise me, but it grated on me. He shouldn’t be enjoying this, I didn’t enjoy his little slice on me and I sure as hell didn’t want him to enjoy this. I took more methodical swings against his arms, allowing the tails to wrap around and peel off trails of flesh. He gave a few high yelps in response that grew louder with each lash I took. Johnny then let out a louder moan, his smile widening. Soon he was snickering like a mad bird. Was the bastard bluffing me or was he really enjoying this?

  
“You enjoying yourself, you sick little fucker?” I said, giving him one more crack for good measure.

  
He only cackled in response. I slid a few steps toward him and backhanded him hard across the face. His whole body swung to the side, caught by the chains holding him against the wall like a puppet on strings. I gave him another love tap for good measure, waiting until he returned to his original position and smacking him again. Such is the advantage of being a reaper; a simple slap has a bit more meaning. He spat out a wad of blood and then that goofy smile crawled back on his face.

  
“Feisty little minx, aren’t ya,” he said, grinning and showing blood coated-teeth.

  
I wanted to give him a few more whippings, though I would rather have calmed my temper a bit. Brute force for too long would be no fun, I wanted to do a few more creative things and could only do so with my bile at a more agreeable level. Now was a good time to pause, collect my strength, and ready my next assault. It would be taking the chance he would flap his lips harder and piss me off even more.

  
“A bit yes, I don’t like it when arseholes like you try to kill me,” I said.

  
I unbuttoned my shirt, opening the panels to show the angry red mark with black stitches. He smirked a bit more and snickered.

  
“I was doing you a bloody favor, ol’ Jacky,” he said. “You and that little veal that was next to you.”

  
I got right in his face until my nose was touching his. My right hand clamped under his jaw and jerked his head back, one finger poised on his Adam’s apple and pressing hard.

  
“Oh please do enlighten me,” I hissed in his ear. “What bloody favor would that be? Liberating us from the very knowledge of your true nature because we cannot handle the awesomeness of your presence? Now there’s vainglory if I ever saw it.”

  
“And I know no one as vainglorious as two beautiful murderers ripping up a bunch of filthy whores for sport, though the earl’s convinced you two lovelies had some kind of higher message to send,” he said.

  
I didn’t realize how much this subject rubbed me the wrong way. I resisted the urge to smack him another one, instead I was truly curious as to where this was going.

  
“You touch a nerve the right way, the body will twitch; alive or freshly dead,” he said. “It appears I’ve done just that, haven’t I, Jack?”

  
“And how much did our darling little brat tell you?” I asked, pressing harder against his windpipe, his lack of struggling infuriating me more though calm was still the best course for now.

  
“Everything,” he said, “except the fact that the whelp butler turned violent maniac actually worked for a certain company of ghosts. Though I already knew that little fact. Illusion charms only work on humans, tough corpses as old as me can see through them a bit better. It was a well-made one I’ll give you that. It took me a couple looks to see the pretty yellow-green, but I swear I didn’t see what lovely red hair and what bright, savage smiles you had.”

  
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Johnny-boy,” I said, pressing harder against his windpipe to the point where I felt it start to close.

  
He gave a few chokes that turned into gurgling chuckles. I released his throat and smacked him another one, he only laughed louder.

  
“Such a passionate monster you are, little Jacky,” he said, finding his voice after I nearly crushed his windpipe. “Such a lust for blood, such a desire to get drunk off fountains of it. I had such hope for you, lad; little savage after my own heart.”

  
I believe I was starting to catch his meaning. I grabbed him by the throat and smashed his head against the wall.

  
“Beg pardon, dear sir, but I believe you thought I would be just as hideous as you lot,” I said, leaning right into his face.

  
Oh how pretty those eyes were, that nasty scar across his face just accentuating his savage beauty. These were the eyes of pure wickedness; eyes that had looked on the murders of his own people in glee.

  
“Instead you’ve been absorbed back into the bowels like a nice soft piece of meat,” he said. “You could have been that metal pick that would rip it all apart from the inside. I’m disappointed in you, son. I thought you were better than this.”

  
My other hand reached in my pocket and pulled out a little toy I brought for the occasion. I folded it open with one hand whilst keeping a thoughtful gaze on the dear Undertaker.

  
“And then what,” I said. “And then I could join you in your little shop and we could piss off the reaper order together as partners. Oh what a romantic story that makes. But things didn’t work out that way did they, Johnny.”

  
I slowly ran the tip of the razor on the scar across his chest. The angry white line oozed red, the flesh separating under the blade. It was the perfect little tool. I had just replaced my everyday razor and knew the old one could come in quite handy for something. He winced with the sudden sting. I ran the blade even slower; I wanted to conjure the memory of the occasion that caused it. Yes it was a mundane blade, though trauma only needs the slightest push to jump back. His skin went cold and I saw goosebumps forming. Dear God, did I finally make him uncomfortable?

  
“No, instead here you are chewing on the bone they threw you like a good little dog,” he said, though his voice was a little breathier than it was a moment ago. “I had hoped you’d spit in their faces and leave London, go to another city, perhaps another part of Europe, perhaps America, Africa for Satan’s sake. Live like a queen in your palace of charnel, live like a free Molly.”

  
I made it to the end of his scar, my blade sinking a bit deeper and scratching into the thick muscle. I traced the inside of the flesh, scraping it down in an opposite pattern. He let out another wince, then a snicker. I took hold of the loose skin with my other hand, thumb and forefinger gently peeling downward as my left hand worked further into freeing some flesh. Blood stained the sides of my fingers and oozed down the back and palm of my hands. What a soothing sensation it was; if he was indeed enjoying this, I would also enjoy the smell and soft feel of his blood over my hands.

  
“Though you never intended to be in the picture?” I said, mimicking heartbreak. I tugged on his loose flesh, feeling him squirm under my hand. “And here I was thinking such a hot beast was in love with me.”

  
He snickered. Christ, his laugh was unnerving.

  
“Perhaps it’s for the best, you’re not exactly husband material,” I said, pulling more of his skin.

  
It was like skinning a chicken. The scar on his left breast was nigh gone, as was most of the flesh on this particular pectoral. My he did have nice muscles, I could see every red fiber in front of me.

  
“You’ve got too much of the blood of your own race on your hands,” I hissed in his face. “I find that rather unattractive; not to mention my own blood, not to mention Ronnie’s blood, that’s not even getting into the corpses you soiled yourself with or all those dead bodies aboard that ship. I may be a bit barking myself, but that is a bit beyond the pale. You’ve taken being a sick twat to an art form, you have.”

  
“And what in the blazes do you call this?” he said, voice caught between a wince and a giggle. “You seem to be enjoying yourself a bit. How do you know some little kid won’t be peeling off your flesh in a few hundred years?”

  
“I’ll deal with that when it happens, which won’t be if I can help it because I actually value my own kind enough to piss on those that carve them up,” I said.

  
My hand let go of his peeling flesh and took a firm grip of that lovely white hair, the blood on my hands adding some lovely red streaks as I yanked his head back.

  
“Flesh and blood that pisses on you for being a scofflaw, for being abnormal, for not following the proper lockstep order, for being a troublemaker?” he said. “Don’t tell me a proper lady values being a pariah.”

  
“Fuck all of them and their opinions,” I said, pulling his hair back a bit harder. “I’ve got the best bloody job in the universe and I’ll be damned if I shit that all away like you did. I don’t give a bloody fuck about their opinions, but I wouldn’t dare cut them up like you have your own brethren. That’s just plain instinct you lack and look where it got you.”

  
“That’s a lovely big-girl lecture,” he said. “And how old are you, sweet one? I’d place you no riper than a two centuries, that’s only if they claimed you abnormally young. Other than that you were suckling at mummy’s teet when I was cleaning up our Redcoats off Yankee snow.”

  
This particular comment struck a very old nerve; one I thought I had padded over ages ago. I was a bit raw right now, no wonder why it came as a bit of a jar. Dammit, I couldn’t give him anything. I pooled all my willpower to stay still as a statue.

  
“Oh, you lose your own Redcoat then did you? Did you ever find it, or did it get blown up to pretty pulp?” he said. “I believe I just learned an interesting little fact about our darling Molly. Did you seek solace in other men, did you see his face on every bloke who rammed up the arse? Did you use the blood of others to paint over the blood and charnel in your nightmares, the stuff they didn’t tell you about in that letter from the Secretary at War? Do you try to do that every time you clean up after a bloody corpse, or make a few bloody corpses out of whores?”

  
I slammed his head in the wall harder.

  
“You talk too fucking much,” I said

  
I slammed his head in a few more times and brought the razor to his lips.

  
“I should cut your tongue out to keep you from making any intelligible words,” I said, poising the blade at his lips and pressing in.

  
It cut the flesh into a red line, though his smile remained. I was tempted to reach into his mouth and grab his tongue. I would then slice it off and shove it into his mouth. Knowing him he would just chew it up and swallow it, then still form words even with the lack of a tongue before it regenerated. Perhaps it would invite him to try to pry into my head; he lacked much energy at the moment though he might have a go at it. Instead I pulled the blade back. I wanted to get this on with, my strength wasn’t going to last all night, plus the tightness in my trousers was begging me to continue.

  
“Do you want to know something about me, sweetest,” I said. “I’ve killed people, I’ve killed loads of people since I was brought screaming into this existence. I’ve killed people in glorious, bloody, creative ways. But I was a stupid little human then, I’ve taken my new and improved form a bit more seriously. And yes I gutted those whores right straight last year, but do you want to know why? Because I was a blooming idiot and it almost cost me everything. I’m not the fuck-up you are; I’ve got my vices yes, but I’m not maniacal trash the likes of you. You’re a rabid dog about to be put down and I’m the one whipping you one last time for biting me, because I really didn’t bloody appreciate that one bit.”

  
I let go of his hair and sliced across his midsection. I wanted his entrails to slide out, alas I aimed too high and only saw a gush of blood. I really didn’t feel like having another go, instead I tossed aside the razor and procured the poker. I stabbed the pointed end through his gut. His body jerked back and blood gushed from his mouth. I just kept stabbing him, feeling the press into every single organ and savoring the gush of pretty red from each hole. The Undertaker hung limply from his chains, jerking in response to every movement.

  
I then turned the iron to the other end and bashed the pointed hook into him some more. This iron was nice and heavy. I struck across his ribcage and felt bones shifting and snapping with every hit. The hook went right into his side, the wound sucking with the air escaping his lung. What a lovely fountain of red he was, the sucking wounds and gurgles from his mouth like the soothing gurgles of a spring.

  
I took another look at his chest and already saw the skin reforming where I had peeled it off. The lines around his arms created by the whip looked a bit darker and the hole in his chest was already closing. He was already starting to heal, our boy was far older and possessed much more energy reserves. Hopefully he would go to his grave with a few more love bites from me, though maybe not as many as I had hoped. I didn’t want to look at his face and instead wanted to enjoy my moment. I did see that smile out of the corner of my eye, which just made me beat him harder.

  
Healing was one thing, but wounds like this still hurt like hell. Perhaps he was that mad and enjoyed everything I gave him, or maybe he was trying to bluff me. He knew I wanted my pound of flesh quite literally, maybe he wanted to mock me by pretending it was having no effect. Maybe he wanted to see how angry I could truly get, perhaps that was what that little speech was supposed to do as well. Or maybe he really did want me to embrace my savage nature as he did. What better revenge on the establishment than to corrupt one of the younger ones. It was nicely played, I’d give him that. It made for a nice dramatic reading but nothing more.

  
I mustered as much strength as I could, but the stitches in my chest were tightening to the point of unpleasant pain. I had to pause for a second to take a few breaths. I could feel my strength waning by the moment. He chuckled a bit more, I knew damn well what he was laughing at. I didn’t give a toss if he took this as a sign of weakness, though I took this as a sign I would have to wrap up this little session soon. I took a look at my handiwork, then I caught a glimpse of his trousers. There was a significant bulge in those loose trousers he wore, our boy was pitching quite a tent pole. I drew back my poker and stared at the sight before me.

  
“Well, well, what have we here,” I said.

  
I dismissed the poker from my left hand and took hard, firm hold of his package. He jerked back a bit, which only made me clutch a bit harder. He was stiff as a board, and oh my was he well-endowed.

  
“Oh dear me, it’s like you’ve got a Cumberland sausage in your trousers,” I said. “This thing unroll any further?”

  
His mouth curved into a smug smile, though I could see his body tensing up. Whether it was the discomfort of violation or desperation I really didn’t care at the moment. I squeezed him harder, digging my nails in though the last thing I wanted him to think was that I was going to finish him off that simply. I loosened my grip a bit, seeing him still shaking a bit.

  
I leaned into his face, his expression didn’t change. My lips softly planted a kiss on his, I felt his mouth slightly relax before puckering a bit himself. He wasn‘t joining in with too much interest, though he wasn’t drawing back either. Perhaps he was humoring me. Both my hands took hold of his waistband, I slid back and pulled down his trousers to his ankles.

  
The rest of his body was very nicely toned; age had been good to him, or rather age can be good to all reapers who don’t squander it. This Undertaker did have very nice manly assets; his rammer was just a few centimeters short of his belly-button right now. He was actually circumcised; I wasn’t used to that though he was more a man of the world. I wrapped my fingers around it and lightly caressed upward, he flinched again.

  
“Such a man,” I said, my fingernails scraping the sides.

  
I reached the tip and pinched it hard with my nails. He flinched again, though I heard a few chuckles.

  
“See something you like, dearest?” he said.

  
“It seems you have some redeeming qualities after all,” I said.

  
The certificate said I could do anything that didn’t involve Gray Metal or powers. The door was clamped shut and no one was in the hallway, even if they were I could give them a good show. I had been taken by a man against a wall before; it was all a matter of positioning. I could easily bend a bit and pound myself with this sweet stalk of meat. Then again did I really want to give him that satisfaction. He was my whore now, he already rammed me and Ron up the arse at the same time on that ship most figuratively; did I really want to give him the literal privilege now?

  
I stared at his loveliness, though my mind conjured the memory of his smile when he sliced into Ronnie and I. The desire to take this in from him was dying rapidly. No, he already took me and I could barely stand from it now. It was my bloody turn; see how he felt getting rammed.

  
I massaged his pen a bit with my right hand, my left hand dropping to my trousers, undoing the buttons, and liberating my own painfully stiff organ.

  
“You like this?” I said. “Good, because I’ve got one more little going away gift.”

  
I dropped his stiff one and shoved two fingers into his entrance. He flinched a bit harder, Johnny wasn’t exactly expecting this was he? He closed up a bit, though I only put my fingers in a bit deeper. I was going to stretch him out a bit, but why do him any favors? I grabbed hold of my own hard lance and shoved it in. He let out a shrill yelp that just encouraged me even more.

  
I grabbed his shoulders and rammed him hard, slamming him against the wall with each shove inward. He broke as I expected, so I slid against him harder. He yelped repeatedly like a fox being gutted alive. I grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the wall, feeling the warm, cozy slick forming on the back of his scalp.

  
I normally prefer laying on the receiving end, but words could not describe every ounce of unholy bliss I felt now. Johnny was my whore, my plaything. He was my bloody work of art. I kissed the side of his face and sunk my teeth in his neck, tearing out flesh and rubbing my face against the hot river pouring from the wound. I nibbled the sides of his face, my tongue lapping the warm marks. My hands caressed the healing lashes and barely new growth of skin from the hole I peeled.

  
I actually felt his lips rub against my forehead, he kissed down the side of my face, and I felt heavy breaths against my skin. I didn’t give a damn if he was enjoying this or not, I sure as hell was enjoying myself. I drew my torso back a bit and slapped him hard. I just loved how his body shifted over my working instrument, I slapped him again a few more times and couldn’t contain a cry of ecstasy. I dragged my nails down his back until I felt blood, soon I was raking like an animal.

  
I shoved him hard against the wall, positioning myself so I could see his face as I slammed into him again and again. Those pretty eyes of his were locked on me, mouth letting out heavy breaths and a few moans. The corners of his mouth were locked upward in a stiff smile. I grunted hard with every thrust, I was a wild animal. I must have looked a fright but I wouldn’t want it any other way. I was a monster right now, I was something to be feared.

  
I peeled back the open panels of my shirt; damn I was getting warm. I saw his eyes go to the mark and he smiled a little more. He got slammed against the wall even harder for this. I felt a thick flood against my belly with his release, but I didn’t stop one moment. I went harder and harder, caressing the blood over his body and smelling blood and seed mixing together.

  
I bit hard into his chest, savoring Johnny’s yelp and lapping the sweet redness trickling from the mark. I slammed him fiercer, riding my own final wave with a series of hard moans. At last my seed burst into his body, I shoved it in harder with a loud grunt so he could take every single drop of me.

  
This was pure ecstasy, I hadn’t known such perfect exhilaration in too long. I was spent, I was exhausted, but I was more than satisfied.

  
“What a talented little Molly you are,” Johnny said with a breathy cackle.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The conclusion of “Right of the Injured Party.”


	3. Part 3

**Right of the Injured Party**

  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Yana Toboso and Square Enix, Co. Ltd. I don’t own them; I just examine all their possibilities.

  
**Part 3**

  
I pulled out from him, giving him a strong shove for good measure. I wasn’t even using all of my strength, yet his body bounced off the wall with the jingling of his chains. He threw his head back and cackled; this one breathy yet shrill. It sounded like post-coital giddiness, God knows I was feeling my own but in a much different way.

  
I put my cock back in my trousers and refastened the buttons. I had his blood and gravy all over my stomach; it felt soothing right now though I’d want a proper bath later. My wound was scolding me harshly, I looked down and saw it was all red, though all the stitches were in place. Perhaps I should go to the infirmary and get it cleaned off after this. At the same time I could show Ronnie the residuals of my little play, I was sure he would be rather pleased with what he saw.

  
I leaned down and picked the whip, dismissing it into my stores. Then I retrieved my razor from the floor. This was a nice little toy and we were recommended to have a mundane secondary weapon. Perhaps this beauty did have a higher purpose, it certainly served me well tonight. The sick bastard kept right on laughing, it echoed through the cell like the call of an overly amused banshee. Let him have his fun, I sure as hell did.

  
“Happy, darling,” I said, walking up to him.

  
“Ohhhhoho that was a delicious last meal hehehehe,” he said. “Soooo spicy, what a wonderful bite it had hehehe.”

  
“Oh I found it rather yummy myself, so very juicy,” I said. “Alas, lover, I must leave you. You have a date with a death scythe in just a few hours. Wouldn’t want you to go unprepared.”

  
I was tempted to leave him with his trousers around his ankles, though keeping them there would make what happened a bit obvious. That didn’t exactly concern me on an aesthetic level and I really didn’t do anything against the rules that needed hiding. However, the bosses were a tricky lot not to mention stodgy as hell; you never knew what they could use against you even for future use. Perhaps a tiny bit of tidying was in order. I crouched down and pulled up his trousers, giving the tip of his prick a tiny bite hard enough to make him flail back with a yelp before I pulled his pants back to their original position.

  
“You going to be there when I go under the scythe?” he said. “Will you be there in your sweet lover’s last moments?”

  
I folded my arms and leaned on his chest.

  
“Indeed I will,” I said. “I wouldn’t miss watching your head drop for the world.”

  
“Such a sweet little Molly, you are,” he said with a snicker.

  
“What’s it like knowing you’re going to die in just a few hours?” I asked, one finger batting his braid. “How does it feel knowing that centuries of existence is going to end in one clean cut, or perhaps one messy cut?

  
He gave a dark chuckle.

  
“I’ve accepted my fate,” he said, leaning further down into my face. “I have no regrets whatsoever. I’m ready for that one final laugh. And you, dearest darling, have made my farewells to this hell of existence a little sweeter.”

  
I stroked the side of his face with one hand.

  
“Oh you are such a dear,” I said. “I’ll always remember you; you demented little bug.”

  
I just loved the way his face tightened and how the blood spurted from his neck with my little swipe. The gush covered me, so sweet and warm it was. I took a couple steps back, the razorblade poised in my hand. He didn’t make a move, he probably suppressed that natural human urge to draw breath and took the cut for what it was. A stream of blood flowed from his lips.

  
I leaned in one more time and kissed them, savoring those soft lips and lapping up the sweet red. He puckered up too, his kiss smearing more of his blood over my mouth. I drew back and walked for the door, blowing him one last kiss. His mouth curved into a goofy smile. He looked to be laughing though the air only went as far as the hole in his throat; the wound wheezed a bit more and spurted blood in the pattern of a chuckle.

  
I folded the razor and placed it in my pocket, taking out the key Jimmy the Gaoler had given me to get out of here. I buttoned my shirt and wiped some blood from my lips with the sleeve, then I placed the key in a small keyhole in the door and turned it. The ward snapped with the same heavy force and the locking mechanism opened. I slid open the door and walked out of there. The hole in Johnny’s throat would be closing soon and I had little desire to hear any more of his nonsense. I would be seeing him in a much more agreeable venue later on.

  
I closed the door behind me, seeing the gaoler walking down the hallway right towards me. He looked me up and down with a snicker.

  
“Looks like you had a jolly good time,” he said.

  
“Words cannot describe it,” I said with a wide smile.

  
“You remembered your toys I take it; one iron poker and one cat-o-nine-tails,” he said, looking down at the clipboard in his hand.

  
“Indeed I did,” I said.

  
He lead me down the hallway and back to the same storeroom. Jimmy opened the door and ducked in, coming out with a large tin box.

  
“Place your items in here, we’ll be cleaning and cataloging them later,” he said.

  
I produced the two items and placed them in the box. He closed it and placed a lock on it, ducking back into the room and presumably leaving it in the appropriate place before emerging.

  
Jimmy then lead me to the lift, I couldn’t wait to be out of this dungeon. I welcomed the smell of fresher air, even if it was in the higher levels of the prison. At last we reached the main floor, he bade me leave the door and go back into the lobby so I could get my scythe. The door latched and Jimmy was back in his booth. He asked me for the key, which I placed right on his desk for his taking. He then went into the metal cabinet and brought out my lovely death scythe, gently handing it back to me. I then dismissed it back into its proper place, I so couldn‘t wait to use it properly again.

  
Jimmy signed a few more papers and bade me my leave.

  
“Be in Courtyard #1 in this building, preferably before 4:15 a.m. if you wish to witness the execution,” he said.

  
“Thank you for the information, good sir,” I said.

  
I turned around and walked from the prison ward. I knew I looked a mess; my clothes were covered in blood. Thankfully no one was in this building…wait, what the hell did I have to hide? I hadn’t done anything wrong, what was so unusual about a reaper coming home from a particularly bloody encounter? Yeah we could clean the blood and fluids off our clothes with a thought, but what if I didn’t feel like it now? Let’s see how many people figured where I came from, let’s see how many people turned their noses up at it or silently applauded.

  
I stood in the lobby and mustered enough energy to phase to the infirmary wing, though I damn near fell on my face when materializing. I had to grip the wall for a second and let the wave of dizziness pass. I wasn’t in full health when I went for those moments with the Undertaker and I hadn’t exactly been resting since. I stared at the floor, then heard footsteps practically running in my direction.

  
“You hurt, Mr. Sutcliff, or just exhausted?” a female voice said. It was Dr. Eliza Kingsbury, one of the staff physicians; a stern lady, a bit plain looking, but very skilled.

  
I looked up to see her practically in my face. That mousy brown hair of hers was actually in a ponytail and not it’s usual messy bun, it suited her a bit better

  
“Not to worry, doctor, this isn’t my blood,” I said with a grin.

  
She looked over me with a cocked eyebrow, carefully pulling my shirt back to have a look at my wound.

  
“I thought I’d bandaged this up earlier,” she said. “And it doesn’t look like you’ve been resting it at all.”

  
She grabbed my shoulder and pushed me towards the main examination room.

  
“I can already tell your energy’s low,” the doctor said. “I warned you when I checked you out to take it easy.”

  
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, going through the open door of the exam room.

  
I sat on one of the padded benches. She took my shoulders again and gently pushed me down to lay on the bench. I obliged, putting my legs up and taking a full recline.

  
I was dreadfully lightheaded, but still rather giddy. It was like the early stages of drunkenness only this time it was purely natural. She unbuttoned my shirt with nearly no regard for the bloodstains and took a careful look at my wound. I could see her eyes wander to the other stains over my body, though she had no reaction. She pulled my shirt off my shoulders, I helped by sliding my arms out of the garment and letting her take hold of it. She hung it up on a hook on the wall and took another close look at the angry red line, her finger tracing down the line of stitches.

  
“All the stitches are intact, though a few pulled a bit,” she said.

  
She walked over to a cabinet and produced a bottle and a small cloth.

  
“So you were aware of what I just got done doing,” I said, unable to hold back a snicker.

  
“Most aware, in fact Mr. Spears gave me a warning this order might come down around the time you were discharged,” she said. “This is just a cleaning solution, should take care of the swelling and clean it out a bit.”

  
Dr. Kingsbury said, twisting out the cork and putting it on a table then dabbing some solution on the cloth.

  
“You don’t think our dearest Undertaker has anything catching, do you?” I said with a little laugh, though I wasn’t overly concerned.

  
“As a matter of fact necromancy carries its own set of communicable hazards to which our kind are vulnerable,” she said, positioning the cloth over the end of the mark near my side. “This might sting a little.” She lightly dabbed the cloth. It did sting a little, though weak enough so I barely noticed it. “There are numerous supernaturally based infections and curses that can befall one who messes around with that nonsense.“

  
My smile relaxed a bit and I heeded the little glare she gave me.

  
“However, we tested him for everything when he was brought in,” Dr. Kingsbury said. “Even called in a gent from Ireland who’s rather knowledgeable in these sorts of things. John Pennington was clear of everything, meaning he knew what he was doing and protected himself when he fooled around with such monstrosity. The problem is you didn’t know if he was clear of any infections or curses before you lay into him full bore with your own fresh wound, Mr. Sutcliff; not to mention you took the bloody bandage off and left your shirt open so you were fully exposed.”

  
“That was indeed careless of me,” I said, legitimately relieved at such a word. “I shall take better heed. Though fortunately I have no intention to do such exercises anytime in the future.”

  
“Good,” she said.

  
She got done wiping the wound, then proceeded to wipe down the rest of my chest and midsection with the cloth, swipes going away from the line. The Undertaker’s blood was cleared off as was his caked-on milk. She didn’t make any reaction the whole time, only cleaned me off.

 

“I’m not going to ask what you did with him, but I will say necromantic curses can also be transmitted through any genital fluids as well,” she said a bit bluntly. “Keep that in mind before dallying with anyone who’s played around with that rubbish.”

  
I couldn’t help but chuckle a little, she had a good idea what happened.

  
“I told Mr. Spears I wanted to be around when he delivered that order, though apparently he got a bit jumpy,” she said with a huff. “Alas I was called away; one of the kids got careless with cleaning his blade and sliced himself pretty bad.”

  
“Poor little sod,” I said.

  
“Yes, well he just needed a few stitches on his hand, though I’d have hope Mr. Spears waited before handing you that certificate. That’s when I would have told you Mr. Pennington was clear of everything.”

  
Will just couldn’t wait to give me my toy. What a thoughtful beauty he was, I was getting chills just thinking about it.

  
“Alas I’m the only one on duty tonight,” the doctor said. “Dr. Sutherland is resting for his own unfortunate duty in the morning.”

  
It took me a moment to think of what she was referring to, but I nodded with the understanding.

  
“He’s going to be the one who makes sure old Johnny’s gone for good,” I said.

  
“That he is,” she said, cleaning off the rest of Lord Johnny’s residue.

  
She put the bottle and the cloth down on a little table, then went into a side cabinet.

  
“Can I ask you a personal question, dearest doctor?” I said. “Or rather it is less a question than a moral opinion.”

  
I heard her give a small, annoyed chuckle.

  
“And just what would that be?” Dr. Kingsbury said.

  
“If you were in my position, would you have taken the bosses up on that offer? Would you have gone for that kind of lovely retribution, Hippocratic Oath and all that considering?”

  
She walked away from the counter with a syringe and a vial of some sort of med in her hands. Dr. Kingsbury placed both on the table, then poked the top of the vial with the needle and drew in the contents.

  
“This is a saline solution infused with a bit of energy, it should get you up to a better level than you are now,” she said. “I will personally take you back to your room right after this and I order you rest and use no further powers for at least the rest of the day. If you wish to witness the execution, I’ll instruct Mr. Spears to escort you down to the Security building in the morning. But you need to get proper rest, especially after straining yourself so much tonight.”

  
“I had hoped to pay Ronnie a visit, let him know how everything went,” I said. “Unless he’s still fast asleep.”

  
“He is actually, and I’d rather he rested too,” she said, taking hold of my upper right arm. “However you will get to see him in the morning. He has healed sufficiently so I gave him leave to attend that hideous show accompanied by one of the nurses.”

  
“Oh that’s indeed good news,” I said. “He so wanted to watch that piece of pig droppings get his head lopped off.”

  
Hopefully he would also get to see the residuals of my little fun. I was sure he would be appreciative.

  
She poked the needle into my arm. It stung pretty good for a moment, though backed right off. She pushed the plunger down and I felt a bit more together in an instant. I actually breathed a sigh of relief. The doctor slid the needle out and placed it on the table. She then collected her items and disposed of them or put them away in their proper fashion.

  
Dr. Kingsbury returned to me with a bandage roll. She motioned for me to come to a sit, which I did so a little easier thanks to the injection I just got. She then proceeded to wrap my torso and chest as it had been earlier. I didn’t exactly regret taking them off before my bit of fun, I wanted the Undertaker to behold his splendid work.

  
“In perfect honesty, Mr. Sutcliff, I would have to consider such an opportunity carefully; though I would hold no objections to at least considering something so extreme,” Dr. Kingsbury said, her voice a bit less severe.

  
I smirked a bit at this answer.

  
“Fortunately I have never taken a wound as bad as you and Mr. Knox did,” she continued, continuing her careful wrapping. “Though if those wounds were on me, I can’t say for certain I’d refuse; Hippocratic Oath and all that considering.”

  
I couldn’t hold my dirty chuckle.

  
“Hence you will have no judgment whatsoever from me,” she said, looking right into my eyes. “You did what you had to do to satisfy your anger. I just hope you had the satisfaction you need.”

  
I took a hard breath, my smile widening a bit.

  
“I can tell you with the utmost honesty. Dr. Kingsbury, that I most certainly did.”

  
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” she said, tucking the end of the bandage. “Now you keep this on. When you get back to your room, you get some rest. I want you back in your room and resting after this ordeal is over.”

  
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  
She threw me back my shirt, I slid it back on though I knew for certain it was irredeemable. I could have attempted to clear it, though in truth I would rather have a souvenir.

  
I got off the bench and she took my arm. A flash of light later, we were outside my room. She kept me steady after materializing, enough for me to walk on my own back to my room. I bade her a warm goodnight and then went through the door. I turned on a lamp, seeing the clock on my wall reading close to midnight. I would only have about three hours of sleep, though any rest at this point sounded most lovely.

  
I set my watch to chime at 3, then I undressed and changed into my red nightgown. I washed off the blood and makeup on my face and gave myself a good scrub with this American witch hazel I had grown fond of. Brushing my hair could wait for the morning. Instead I crawled into my bed for the first time in quite a while and drifted off to a nice cozy sleep.

  
The chime woke me as expected, I opened my eyes and moved a bit to feel my wound aching rather nicely. It was enough to prompt me upright and onto getting ready to see Johnny off. I approached this as a bit more somber occasion. I went light on my make-up and chose a simple black suit with a standard black tie. Perhaps I did feel I was going to a funeral, or maybe a tiny part of me wanted to look respectable when the bosses saw what I did with the boy of the hour. Perhaps I did become a bit more conscious of decorum in the wake of recent events.

  
Maybe I took my words to Johnny a bit more seriously, though I recall what I told Ron after boarding that ship: being a reaper is the best profession in the world. I’d held a few different professions in my living days, this had them all topped. Yes the higher-ups were a stodgy lot, yes there were things like codes and paperwork to mind. Those were merely details to me; I love being a reaper. It took me almost losing this gift through my own idiocy to fully appreciate that. I counted my blessings everyday that I had this second chance. I just couldn’t respect anyone of our kind who would throw that all away so gleefully.

  
What were the odds Johnny sat in front of his own mirror at my age and thought the exact same thing? What if John did love this job at one point, what if the passing centuries stole that passion? Such is the mystery of immortality, who the hell knows what will happen in an hour let alone a millennium? That was what made this all so exciting.

  
I was told I could be back on duty in another week, maybe less. I was just itching to get back to the routine; the routine this Undertaker so hated. In the end it was his loss and no one would shed any tears for him.

  
At last I got the knock on the door around 4, Dr. Kingsbury indeed kept her word. I got up and looked out the peephole, seeing the handsome William standing right outside my door. I opened the door and was a bit amused to get a look-over.

  
“Dear God, you’re actually dressed respectfully,” he said.

  
“I felt it only appropriate to mark a bit of a somber occasion,” I said, straightening my tie for emphasis.

  
“Appropriate to dress for such a formal good riddance celebration,” he said.

  
“Well he always said such occasions were one’s final party.”

  
“Only he will have the opportunity to witness most of his.”

  
“Indeed.”

  
I put out my arm for him.

  
“Shall we off, darling,” I said.

  
He huffed a little before stiffly grabbing my arm.

  
“Don’t even start with me this morning, Sutcliff,” he said.

  
He lead me for two steps and we phased from the hallway, appearing in the lobby of the Security building. I stumbled for another few steps, actually feeling Will grab my shoulder to steady me.

  
“Such a gentleman, you are,” I said.

  
“If that’s what they’re calling it these days,” he replied.

  
I snickered and walked down the hallway beside him. He was in a rather charming mood this morning, I was most entertained. We were soon joining a few others looking to be on their way to the same destination. All of us moved to another part of the building adjacent to the prison ward which soon lead into a bit of a dark hallway. Another guard lead us through a steel door off to the side through a more severe looking corridor. This reminded me of the hold Johnny had been thrown in. Perhaps his final destination would look the same.

  
At last we assembled into a wide, boxy room, a wooden fence looped around a center stage and everyone was standing. I’d hoped it would be a good old-fashioned scaffold outside with plenty of witnesses there to throw things at the condemned. Alas this looked to be a small party of managers and assistants in what looked like a small indoor coliseum. I recognized both the London boys and the visitors from Sheffield. This had to be a banner moment for those lads; fifty years of hunting after this murderer officially ended today. They were all as stoic as usual, though I saw that tiny gleam of glee in their eyes.

  
I saw Thomas Cranston, the Director of Security Services standing on the main stage with a few guards in the standard buttoned up blue coat with pikes for scythes. There was another gentleman beside him, I think I recognized him from the library though his name escaped me. He held what looked like a record book in his hand, perhaps that’s where Johnny’s Cinematic Record was going. I would so love to have seen what juicy details had passed in his 800 years, but alas all of that was likely held for privileged eyes.

  
Father Michael Smith was up there, the head chaplain for those immortals who still held the church in some respect. Father Michael normally wears a suit and takes regular duty. This was one occasion where he wore full white funerary vestments, The Book of Common Prayer clutched in his slightly trembling hands. I immediately recognized the gentlemen in a lab coat with dirty blonde hair and a thick moustache as Dr. Ian Sutherland. Normally Dr. Ian is a very cheery fellow, though this time his expression was the grimmest I’d ever seen. I felt bad for the poor boy, that had to be an awful task for a physician.

  
William pointed to our prime spot in the front row and had me go in first. I immediately saw Ronnie at the end of the line and my heart leapt a bit. He was in a full suit, though leaned heavily on a cane. The boy was looking a bit better, though was still incredibly pale. A lovely young nurse with wavy blonde hair wearing a plain white dress stood beside him; I think I recognized her as Annabelle, one of his favorite pastime activities. I walked up to him and have him a handshake with a little clap on the back.

  
“So happy you could make it,” I said.

  
“You kidding, I wouldn’t miss this show for anything,” he said.

  
He leaned a bit further toward me.

  
“We going to see your handiwork?” he murmured in my ear.

  
“I duly hope so,” I whispered back. “I gave him some lovely going away presents.”

  
Ron gave a rather warming chuckle.

  
“Blimey I wish I could’ve had my own go at the fucker,” he said. “I’m nice and jealous now.”

  
“Don’t worry, I think I did enough for two of us.”

  
I just loved how he grinned at this.

  
“Knowin’ you, Mr. Sutcliff, that warms my black little heart.”

  
I smiled and had a little snicker myself. I looked down at my watch, 4:25.

  
Almost on cue, a wide door opened in the back of the hall and the guards parted formation. Another contingent of guards entered holding chains, and there in the middle was Lord Johnny himself. I saw a few eyes widen around the room, a couple glances went in my direction though most eyes stayed forward. Wills face remained as stony as ever. I loved how Ron’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened to saucers.

  
“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding,” he whispered to me in the midst of a surprised laugh.

  
Johnny wore the same simple attire he did last I visited him. His body was caked in dried blood. The skin over his chest reformed as pale pink putty, the lines from the whip were a shade of dark auburn. There were still large scabs from when I hit him with the poker and I saw large marks of blue and purple underneath the dried blood. That nasty cut across his throat healed closed for the most part save for a single gaping superficial wound. His face was still a little puffy from where I smacked him a few times. It looked like he did have enough energy to heal most of what I gave him though some shadows of the real damage remained. What were the odds he delayed his healing to give us all a little show; I wouldn’t put it past him.

  
His arms and legs were still in the cuffs, the chains in the hands of the guards. That once flowing white hair had been hacked to the base of his head, likely to create an easier space for the scythe. Naturally the Undertaker was smirking a bit as he was lead forward; he had accepted his fate after all.

  
His eyes scanned his surroundings, though were soon locked on mine. I smiled and gave him a little wave. He gave me a feral grin in return.

  
The parade stopped on the stage. A reaper in a black cloak with the classic black hood over his head then stepped forward, a large axe was poised in his hand with the blade bearing the tell-tale shine and coloring of Gray Metal. This deadly-looking beauty had to have been made for a specific purpose, it was a bit too large and ornate for an everyday scythe. I was a little disappointed to see Johnny wouldn’t be going on his own scythe, the same one that sliced into Ron and I. Perhaps such was a rule of decorum reapers didn’t violate; I wasn’t exactly that familiar with elimination proceedings and that was for the best in my estimation.

  
Tom Cranston opened a small book in his hands, presumably his keynote address for this celebration. He then proceeded to read:

  
“John Pennington, by the authority of the Reaper Council, you have been sentenced to elimination on the following charges: the murder of four reapers, the murders of 1,548 humans, the attempted murders of two reapers, manipulating Cinematic Records, manipulating corpses with death energy, malicious manipulations of death energy, and abuse of your powers to cause grievous harm. All of these are crimes that have rendered your existence void and the most correct remedy for all you have wrought is to end that existence here on this day. Do you have any final words?”

  
Johnny smiled a bit and chuckled as always.

  
“It was fun while it lasted,” he said. “I’ve had plenty to laugh about.”

  
I saw William’s eyes narrow dangerously. He looked at this man with complete and utter contempt. No wonder why he wanted to give me my certificate so quickly. He might have been deliciously cold, but Will was so loyal to our own kind. How it must have warmed his heart to see such a traitor suffer.

  
John was pushed down to his knees, the executioner’s gloved hand positioned his neck on a black stone block. Father Michael opened his prayer book to the usual liturgy:

  
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

  
The executioner faced his blade toward another guard, who examined it and nodded.

  
“He maketh me lie down in green pastures, He leadeth me beside the still waters.”

  
The executioner poised his axe, waiting for the signal from Mr. Cranston. Father Michael continued on a few more lines.

  
Johnny looked right up at me with those pretty, cruel eyes of his. I felt a slight pressure in my temples, apparently he saved a little energy to tell me something though was taking his time to do it. I took a brief look down at my watch; 4:29.

  
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

  
John smiled at me, the connection growing a bit stronger though he was keeping quiet and I was getting no images. I should have blocked out his intrusion, who knows what hoary images he wanted to implant in my brain.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. Amen.”

  
The executioner leaned his axe down to guide his swing before raising up his weapon.

  
“Goodnight, goodnight,” I heard John’s voice echo through my mind. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

  
“See you in hell, Johnny,” I responded over the connection.

  
Johnny smiled and I saw him give that one last chuckle. Cranston nodded and signaled. The executioner swung his axe down, the blade swiping clean through the Undertaker’s neck.

  
The connection severed like pulling a plug right out of my head. I flinched for a moment and felt a bit dizzy, though I got back my bearings quick. Ron and William glanced at me with a bit of surprise, though I shook my head and waved a hand in dismissal. John’s head dropped into a large basin below the block in a spray of blood. That beautifully marred body twitched for a moment and them went limp. I blew a kiss to Lord Johnny one last time.

  
Glowing reels emerged from the stump where his head once was. The librarian opened the book and positioned it right in front of the playing record, the pages absorbing every flickering strand. They did make sure no reels were visible, though the room was flooded with that familiar silver glow. A few guards huddled around the librarian, I think his name was Stephen, as he caught the many reels. This was a record of 800 years of immortality, 800 years of service, 800 years of madness. If some human record could go haywire, I didn’t even want to think of what the record of such an old and demented reaper would do.

  
At last the final reel sunk into the book, the flickering light faded into the pages before the librarian closed it with thud. Dr. Ian then leaned down, examining the wound across his neck, then reaching in the basket presumably to examine John’s severed head. I caught a brief glimpse of the Undertaker’s face; his eyes were gently closed, mouth curved into a wide smile. Dr. Ian stood up and then nodded grimly. Father Michael crossed himself.

  
It was over. Lord John Pennington, the Undertaker, was gone for good. I did feel a bit sentimental, though I couldn’t help but think it couldn’t have happened to a better person.

  
I would want to return to my room for a nice nap after this, maybe do some sketching later. After I went back on duty I would probably track down the earl and sweetest Bassie to give them the final update. They had already given all their information to Her Majesty, this would just close the book on this sordid tale.

  
In the meantime, my own comfort and well being was the my top priority; a charge I was happy to carry out to the absolute letter.

  
**THE END**

 


End file.
